«Talking. They’re talking to him, the two points of light like his point of light. Only not words. But I can get what they’re saying, even if it isn’t words. One of them asks, ‘Why are you here? You seem strange. As though a lesser being had—’ I can’t understand that part of it; there aren’t any words I know that would say it.
«The thing, the point, inside Dix’s head is answering. It says, ‘I’m trapped here. The matter holds me. The matter and the memories in it hold me prisoner. Can you help me free?’»
«They answer that they will try. They will all three concentrate together. The combined force of the three of them will free him from his prison. They’re trying—»
Something strange was happening. The dictator was still silent, still leaning forward across the table. Minutes had passed, and he had not moved, had not completed the sentence he had started.
Robert Welson turned from the kid back to the window again. To see more clearly, he looked through the telescopic sights of the rifle, but his finger wasn’t on the trigger now. Maybe the half-witted kid really had something on the ball. The dictator had never paused that long before.
Behind him the kid sang out «Free!» as though it were a triumphal thought repeated from somewhere in his brain. And, although the kid couldn’t see out of the window from where he sat, that cry came simultaneously with whatever it was that happened to John Dix.
Welson gasped, but the sound was lost in the sudden screams and shrieks from the audience in the Bowl.
With awful suddenness the body of the dictator vanished before their eyes, vanished into a thin white mist that disappeared into the air as his empty clothing fell to the floor.
But the hideous thing that fell from vanished shoulders and lay in plain sight on the table did not disintegrate at once. It was a hairless, eyeless, almost fleshless, rotting thing that once had been a head.
THE LITTLE LAMB
She didn’t come home for supper and by eight o’clock I found some ham in the refrigerator and made myself a sandwich. I wasn’t worried, but I was getting restless. I kept walking to the window and looking down the hill toward town, but I couldn’t see her coming. It was a moonlit evening, very bright and clear. The lights of the town were nice and the curve of the hills beyond, black against blue under a yellow gibbous moon. I thought I’d like to paint it, but not the moon; you put a moon in a picture and it looks corny, it looks pretty. Van Gogh did it in his picture The Starry Sky and it didn’t look pretty; it looked frightening, but then again he was crazy when he did it; a sane man couldn’t have done many of things Van Gogh did.
I hadn’t cleaned my palette so I picked it up and tried to work a little more on the painting I’d started the day before. It was just blocked in thus far and I started to mix a green to fill in an area but it wouldn’t come right and I realized I’d have to wait till daylight to get it right. Evenings, without natural light, I can work on line or I can mold in finishing strokes, but when color’s the thing, you’ve got to have daylight. I cleaned my messed-up palette for a fresh start in the morning and I cleaned my brushes and it was getting close to nine o’clock and still she hadn’t come.
No, there wasn’t anything to worry about. She was with friends somewhere and she was all right. My studio is almost a mile from town, up in the hills, and there wasn’t any way she could let me know because there’s no phone. Probably she was having a drink with the gang at the Waverly Inn and there was no reason she’d think I’d worry about her. Neither of us lived by the clock; that was understood between us. She’d be home soon.
There was half of a jug of wine left and I poured myself a drink and sipped it, looking out the window toward town. I turned off the light behind me so I could better watch out the window at the bright night. A mile away, in the valley, I could see the lights of the Waverly Inn. Garish bright, like the loud juke box that kept me from going there often. Strangely, Lamb never minded the juke box, although she liked good music, too.
Other lights dotted here and there. Small farms, a few other studios. Hans Wagner’s place a quarter of a mile down the slope from mine. Big, with a skylight; I envied him that skylight. But not his strictly academic style. He’d never paint anything quite as good as a color photograph; in fact, he saw things as a camera sees them and painted them without filtering them through the catalyst of the mind. A wonderful draftsman, never more. But his stuff sold; he could afford a skylight.
I sipped the last of my glass of wine, and there was a tight knot in the middle of my stomach. I didn’t know why. Often Lamb had been later than this, much later. There wasn’t any real reason to worry.
I put my glass down in the window sill and opened the door. But before I went out I turned the lights back on. A beacon for Lamb, if I should miss her. And if she should look up the hill toward home and the lights were out, she might think I wasn’t there and stay longer, wherever she was. She’d know I wouldn’t turn in before she got home, no matter how late it was.
Quit being a fool, I told myself; it isn’t late yet. It’s early, just past nine o’clock. I walked down the hill toward town and the knot in my stomach got tighter and I swore at myself because there was no reason for it. The line of the hills beyond town rose higher as I descended, pointing up the stars. It’s difficult to make stars that look like stars. You’d have to make pinholes in the canvas and put a light behind it. I laughed at the idea—but why not? Except that it isn’t done and what did I care about that. But I thought a while and I saw why it wasn’t done. It would be childish, immature.
I was about to pass Hans Wagner’s place, and I slowed my steps thinking that just possibly Lamb might be there. Hans lived alone there and Lamb wouldn’t, of course, be there unless a crowd had gone to Hans’s from the inn or somewhere. I stopped to listen and there wasn’t a sound, so the crowd wasn’t there. I went on.
The road branched; there were several ways from here and I might miss her. I took the shortest route, the one she’d be most likely to take if she came directly home from town. It went past Carter Brent’s place, but that was dark. There was a light on at Sylvia’s place, though, and guitar music. I knocked on the door and while I was waiting I realized that it was the phonograph and not a live guitarist. It was Segovia playing Bach, the Chaconne from the D Minor Partita, one of my favorites. Very beautiful, very fine-boned and delicate, like Lamb.
Sylvia came to the door and answered my question. No, she hadn’t seen Lamb. And no, she hadn’t been at the inn, or anywhere. She’d been home all afternoon and evening, but did I want to drop in for a drink? I was tempted—more by Segovia than by the drink—but I thanked her and went on.
I should have turned around and gone back home instead, because for no reason I was getting into one of my black moods. I was illogically annoyed because I didn’t know where Lamb was; if I found her now I’d probably quarrel with her, and I hate quarreling. Not that we do, often. We’re each pretty tolerant and understanding—of little things, at least. And Lamb’s not having come home yet was still a little thing.
But I could hear the blaring juke box when I was still a long way from the inn and it didn’t lighten my mood any. I could see in the window now and Lamb wasn’t there, not at the bar. But there were still the booths, and besides, someone might know where she was. There were two couples at the bar. I knew them; Charlie and Eve Chandler and Dick Bristow with a girl from Los Angeles whom I’d met but whose name I couldn’t remember. And one fellow, stag, who looked as though he was trying to look like a movie scout from Hollywood. Maybe he really was one.